


White Wolf

by Radenierafire



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gentle Kissing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Violence, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wolf Instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:07:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radenierafire/pseuds/Radenierafire
Summary: All of the times that Geralt seemed more wolf than man earned him the name White Wolf. It was often cursed, whispered in horror, or prayed to for help.Jaskier understood why the name was bestowed upon his witcher.Yet, he saw the resemblance at times few people would expect.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 581





	White Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> The girls and the other witchers play very minor roles in this story, so if they are the characters you're looking for this one shot will not be satisfactory, sorry! 
> 
> Ciri in this is older, so I referenced Game-Ciri a bit more than show Ciri. 
> 
> Please comment and let me know if you enjoyed it! I would really appreciate the feed back.

There were moments when Jaskier truly understood how honest the title of White Wolf was. Though he did not coin it, the bard had grown to see what the dryads saw in Geralt when they gave him the name so long ago. He grew to see it as more than a poetic way to refer to the witcher in his lyrics, but a genuine description of the man he travelled with. He saw this in flashes, moments when Geralt was more authentic than he was often allowed to be by the general public.

Moments when Geralt was more animal than man.

One would think those moments were all combat involved, as it is easiest to notice a wolf’s violence first. To an extent many of them were. After all, Geralt had a certain exceptional proficiency for fighting. For killing. One matched by few other predators. Matched most accurately by the wolf. 

When he saw Geralt rip a monster's head off for the first time, Jaskier could barely breathe in anticipation. For Geralt didn’t sever the beast’s head from its body. He did not use a sword. Instead he dug his fingers into the soft skin of its neck where a gash had landed. He pushed his hands in through the wound and curled his fingers. The beast reared, trying nothing more than to escape from the anguishing hold that Geralt had captured it in. 

It’s struggles were always in vain. 

Using nothing but his brute strength, Geralt pulled his hands apart. Ripping the monster’s head clean from its body. Or rather. Quite messily. With ragged skin and bone ripping and cracking.

From where Jaskier was hiding, attempting to see the Butcher of Blaviken in action, he saw instead an animal trained to kill. This was not a man avenging a woman for the sake of honoring her death. A man who’s wrath got the better of him and led him to such extraordinary violence. No. Instead, Jaskier saw an animal. There were those things that deserved to die, and Geralt killed by any means necessary. He was not always granted an efficient manner to do so. Sometimes he had to let his instincts take over. Like a wolf fighting an adversary. 

Perhaps those moments appeared once again during the aftermath of a hunt. Black eyes. Cold skin. Senses heightened almost painfully, when Geralt bared his fangs at anyone who passed. No matter whether they were friend or foe. 

Jaskier was ever so careful then. 

When Geralt stalked into camp and trained depthless eyes in Jaskier’s direction. He didn’t speak, and times like this, Jaskier wasn’t certain that there was humanity left in him. 

Jaskier still thought Geralt looked quite beautiful, human or not.

Though, to be quite honest, Geralt was very difficult in these moments. Anyone who’s ever tried to care for an injured dog will know. They do not understand that you are doing what’s best for them. They only know that they are injured and vulnerable, and that you are trying to near them regardless. It is really rather unfortunate that you cannot speak to them, nor them to you. If perhaps you could, it would be easier to explain your intentions. Instead, Jaskier was left with only his body language to communicate with Geralt. He would stand slowly, holding both hands forward, palms up. It was a clear submission. He would walk slowly over to Geralt, whose voice would emanate a dangerous kind of sound in warning.

Jaskier heard the warning. And yet? He would take another step forward once again. 

“Geralt. You are injured.” Jaskier would breathe quietly. Often he would place his hand on his own side or shoulder, to show Geralt where the injury was. To explain where Jaskier was going to have to touch and clean.

With the faintest of recognition Geralt would look down at himself. He often found the injuries he obtained to be inconsequential. He was often prepared to sulk off to a corner of their camp and lick his wounds on his own. After all, more often than not, they would likely be healed in the morning. He could deal with a night of pain or discomfort.

Jaskier would hardly allow such a thing.

“I need you to sit.” The bard would mutter gently, and gesture to a haphazardly set up seat by the fire.

Sometimes the gesture was too much. Geralt would snarl, baring his teeth at Jaskier. His head would tilt forward, chin dropping some in defense of his neck. Jaskier would shake his head calmly. “None of that now.” He would whisper gently. “You have to sit down.”

By the second or third request, it was no longer optional.

“Geralt. Sit.” 

And Geralt would listen. Reluctantly.

Jaskier would kneel beside the wolf and gently start taking off his armor. His hands were incredibly steady. He made quick and soft work of the removal, never bringing too much attention to himself. He would delicately undress Geralt and then wipe clean the wound enough that he could bandage it properly. He kept his touches light, and never made a sound. As long as Geralt was not given reason to believe that Jaskier would use these moments to take advantage of him, he would slowly start to unwind. If Jaskier was lucky, the wolf would slowly start to drift. 

Usually, if the wolf fell asleep he would wake up as Geralt again. If that happened, Jaskier could gently lay Geralt out. Geralt would turn onto his uninjured side and pillow his head with his own arm. Jaskier would have to smile, chest full of fondness at the sight. He would sit up beside Gearlt and gently rub his back until the witcher drifted into actual sleep, curled up tight and close to his bard. Jaskier stayed up to watch their camp.

Days of travel following a good night of care post-hunt were always a bit more comfortable. Geralt was not good at using his words to show his gratitude. Instead he would have the bard ride Roach, rather than walk. Or as they travelled he would tell a story of his past. One with details.

Those moments were very human of him.

Sometimes their travels lead them back on a path to Geralt’s family. It was to be expected that Geralt’s more animalistic tendencies were seen when watching Geralt protect his pack, but when they were together without threat . . . Jaskier wasn’t sure he ever saw Geralt calmer.

Though he would rarely admit to it, Geralt thought of Lambert and Eskel as brothers. Vesemir was something of a mentor, though Jaskier knew father wasn’t the right word to describe his role in Geralt’s life. There was always Yennefer. Jaskier liked to tease that she was sort of like Geralt’s former-betrothed. After all, they had a kid together. Geralt wasn’t fond of that joke. Though it prompted him to think of Ciri, and she always brought a small smile to his face. Ciri was the daughter Geralt truly never thought he would be able to have.

So when their paths crossed, Geralt was particularly human. 

He was softer, one could even say loving. He would take the four of them to nicer taverns and spend the coin he’d earned but saved away for these exact times. There they would sit and talk and recount stories of their travels. Ciri would ask about Geralt’s adventures. Jaskier was usually the one to tell those stories, while Geralt sat back and rolled his eyes fondly. Those nights were quite fun.

Well, until one or two drunk men thought it was their right to comment on Yennefer or Ciri’s appearances. Admittedly, they were very beautiful women. That did not give man the right to belittle them the way they always seemed so inclined. 

“Y’re a pretty thing.” Some drunkard would say, swaying a bit too closely to Ciri’s face.

The young woman, exceptionally able to handle herself, would shake her head. She’d gently shove him away and correct with a sharp, “No. I’m a beautiful woman. Who would like to be left alone.”

Sometimes that was it. The man would be on his way, Jaskier would see Yennefer relax into her seat, and the wolf would lower it’s head as Geralt’s arched brow settled back down. Ciri would turn back to the table, and mutter “Men are pigs.” Geralt was always the first person to nod his agreement, followed closely by Yennefer and Jaskier. Jaskier was the only person who could be grouped with the men, Ciri labeled as swine. And yet? He was far from offended by the generalization.

Especially considering how, more often than not, it was not so simple.

A man would walk up to Yennefer with alcohol on his tongue and run his fingers down her face. “Hey there lady, wanna dance?” 

It was funny the way the words dance and fuck were interchangable in those moments.

Yennefer would look at the man with a glare that should have shrivelled him on the spot and quip something dangerous and promising like, “Do you like the way your fingers are connected to your hand, or is this your request that I remove them?” Again. Jaskier felt certain that this should have sent the man running. 

Unfortunately men were quite stupid. Even for pigs. 

More often than not the man would sneer, jut his chin out at Yennefer and go to say something crude. He very rarely got the chance to, however. Geralt moved like a protective hound, defending its young or its mate. He would be up and out of his seat before Jaskier could even think of calming him down. 

The wolf would growl at these men, hair raised on the back of his neck. “If you don’t leave her alone I will rip your intestines from your stomach and feed them to you.” He’d promise. 

Perhaps they were too sexist to bow to a woman’s threat and too racist to acknowledge Yennefer’s power. But even stupid pigs ran from a hungry wolf.

Jaskier felt the tiniest bit of pride in watching the wolf protect his pack. It made him wonder what Geralt was like around Lambert and Eskel. How his behavior changed, whether he seemed more animal or man. He would have imagined that Geralt would seem more human when around those that didn’t make him feel like an outsider.

And yet?

The moments when Jaskier saw the White Wolf most those moments of tender acceptance and love between them.

For instance, now. They were outside a town, camping out after a contract. Geralt always found it easier to relax when they were in the forest, away from civilization. 

See, out in the forest there were far less people to be weary of. Though it was less safe, the farther into monsters' natural habitats they went, Geralt could deal with the threat of their attacks. It was the risk that someone would oversee his weakness, his submission to his bard, that he couldn’t handle. He was never able to relax quite as much when in the room of a tavern in the center of town. Jaskier could see that he was always keeping half of his attention on the voices below them and the door. Out here, Geralt breathed with nature. He didn’t have to be paying attention to sense when there was danger. He was able to simply exist as he was with his bard. If trouble came he didn’t have to wonder if it was coming for them, or why, or who’s feelings he would hurt if he dealt with it. He simply protected them and went back to listening to Jaskier sing beside their fire. 

So, rather than stay at an inn, they went out to a spot near enough to the town that no one would bother them. Jaskier had long since stopped complaining about being out there rather than in the comfort of an in. After all, Geralt made sure that they didn’t go so far into the forest that deadlier creatures would wander over to them.

They settled themselves, unloading Roach’s back and setting up camp in the small circle of open grass. There was a tree that had been knocked over in some kind of storm, by which Jaskier would lay out the furs and blankets they travelled with. Geralt would tie Roach up securely and make certain she had access to food and water before walking around their site to ward it against the evils that stirred. When he was done, he’d often sit and clean his armor and weapons, readying them for another contract in the next town they visited. Jaskier would light a fire and make them dinner with whatever provisions they’d brought.

When their night came to wind down, Jaskier would sit on their makeshift bed and pull his lute out, singing quietly as he leaned against the fallen tree. Eventually, Geralt would make his way over, sitting down beside the bard and letting his head rest against the bark behind it. He never showed that he was enjoying the music, but he’d frown just the slightest bit when Jaskier set his instrument to the side and stretched his fingers. The frown gave the bard the inspiration to continue to speak even though he was done playing.

And they had long since passed the point of pretending they weren’t what they were.

So, as the bard continued to ramble, Geralt would pull Jaskier into his lap, hold him close, and bury his face in Jaskier’s neck. With the bard’s legs split to straddle Geralt, Geralt had the perfect position to simply hide his face away in the crook between Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, listening to his speaking from there. He would breathe in the soft scents of honey and oak and something would rumble in his chest. It was often the first noise that Geralt would make all night. Jaskier would have to speak quietly, to make sure he could still hear it. 

And it was the moments like this that Geralt seemed so much like the wolf he’d been dubbed.

When he pulled back to look at Jaskier while he spoke, there was almost an animalistic innocence to his expression. The way his head moved in soft intrigued ways, listening to Jaskier ramble. People so often forgot how promising and soft it was when an animal listened to you with their rapt attention.

The way he closed his eyes to lean into the softest touches, like a puppy being pet for the first time. Jaskier’s hands would flit up and over, touching softly the places Geralt allowed. His arms, his sides, his chest. Up to tracing the lines of Geralt’s face. Brushing soft next to the wrinkles beside Geralt’s eyes. 

Eyes filled with such complexity and pain. With the life he lived. Turned soft and round at the gentle physical affection. There was something so simple and pure in his eyes, like the love of a wolf, when Jaskier was gentle with him. 

Geralt would hide his face away again, burying it against Jaskier’s neck. He would use his nose to nudge Jaskier’s chin up, and give himself better access to the soft skin before him. He would kiss and bite where he could reach. Taking his time to simply explore the feeling of Jaskier’s pulse beneath his lips. Geralt would simply rub his cheek against the stubble that trailed over Jaskier’s jaw, and Jaskier would finally fall silent.

He would stay quiet then. During times like these. And always so gentle. 

While Geralt let his mouth travel over Jaskier’s neck, jaw and shoulder, Jaskier would let his fingers roam up over Geralt’s chest and to the back of his head. He’d thread his fingers through Geralt’s hair and lightly scrape his fingernails against Geralt’s scalp at the nape of his neck. The movement would pull Geralt’s attention and have him leaning back. Jaskier had to smile at the way that Geralt relaxed, almost melted, into the touch. 

Geralt would bare his neck.

And Jaskier would barely know how to breathe.

He knew it was the highest honor to be trusted by a wolf. To be presented with the softest most vulnerable part of an alpha’s body, without hesitation. Jaskier knew that it took an immense amount of love for a beast like that to offer such a gesture. He would not take a moment of that trust for granted.

He gently leaned in and kissed Geralt in return. He would start at his lips, gently parting them and tasting the mint of their tea earlier. He would catch Geralt’s bottom lip in his teeth and pull gently. Geralt would growl in the softest manner, low in the back of his throat.

Almost a purr.

And it continued as Jaskier slowly let his lips roam over Geralt’s jaw. He pressed feather light kisses over it and back. He’d gently nip at Geralt’s earlobe, smiling at the way Geralt’s fingers tightened where they’d fallen to rest on Jaskier’s hips. In moments less raw, Geralt would snarl slightly and roll his hips up. That movement was usually pretty efficient in instigating a bit more fun. 

But sometimes Jaskier wasn’t looking for fun. He wanted nothing more than to exalt the wolf. 

Jaskier would have to push Geralt’s hair back to let his mouth wander down Geralt’s neck. His fingers were always slow with the motion. It was always the final question. Silent, but very present. Very rarely, Geralt would catch Jaskier’s wrist and shake his head. Usually, Jaskier considered himself the luckiest man in the world, because Geralt would tilt his own head back. 

Jaskier felt so blessed at such a sight.

He did not rush. Had to be careful lest he do something that ruin these moments they shared. And when Jaskier slowly pulled off his own doublet and tunic, Geralt’s eyes roamed over the expanse of pale skin offered. He looked carefully at Jaskier, as though if he looked closely enough he would be able to see what exactly made Jaskier into the man that he was. To pinpoint exactly where his beauty came from. It was such a pure curiosity that Jaskier was frightened to break his concentration. 

But then Jaskier would slowly reach forward and start unlacing the front of Geralt’s top. His fingers were gentle. They moved swiftly until the cloth laid atop Geralt’s chest with no lace to hold it together. Jaskier would gently reach behind Geralt’s neck and pull the witcher forward. He’d tug at the hem of Geralt’s tunic. When he pulled off Geralt’s shirt, the witcher was keen on pulling him back in for another kiss. Like a dog, licking its owner’s hand to keep them from its injuries. Geralt would lick into Jaskier’s mouth and hold the bard’s back, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest. Geralt’s scars may have healed, but he hid them away like they were fresh wounds. 

Jaskier hated that there were those people who had made Geralt feel freakish for them in the past. He refused to let Geralt proceed under the impression that Jaskier wanted to gawk or taunt or question the marks. So, Jaskier softly, calmly, pushed Geralt back to lean against the fallen tree they were before. Geralt did as he was silently instructed, but his eyes would fall to Jaskier’s chest, unable to watch his bard’s expressions as Jaskier let his eyes roam appreciatively and his hands roamed more so. 

As Jaskier’s eyes moved swiftly, observing with affection and acceptance, his fingers delicately reached out and traced the scars slowly. Dragging his own calloused hands over the harsh, marred skin. Jaskier took his time touching, soothing. His fingers traced with ease, never pushing for more than simple touch. 

He moved slowly. So painfully considerate of Geralt’s sensitive skin.

Geralt often forgot to breathe as Jaskier delicately scraped his fingernails over Geralt’s chest, down his back, beneath his hair. By the time the bard was content in massaging Geralt's insecurity driven tension away, Geralt had usually let his head fall back against the tree he was leaning against. 

He always seemed so at ease.

When Jaskier did lean in to kiss Geralt again, it was not to distract. He did so slowly, passionately. 

They would sit like that for hours, with Jaskier silently singing his praises for the great White Wolf. Until Jaskier finally laid down to rest against Geralt’s chest, holding close to him and listening to his heart beat slowly. He held his wolf tight. Chest to chest. 

When Geralt’s heart slowed even more and his breathing came even, Jaskier would lift his head and gently brush his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “I love you, my wolf.”

And in his state of calm and rest, Geralt had the peace of mind to admit. “And I, you, little lark.”


End file.
